


even shadows need light to exist

by kamsangi



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Family Feels, Gen, Homesickness, Injury Recovery, Introspection, Nostalgia, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Protectiveness, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Team as Family, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27418861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamsangi/pseuds/kamsangi
Summary: These are the kids I want to debut with. They’re the ones I want to do this with.And they'll do this together.Where eight people fall down and pick each other back up again, and again, and again.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 170
Collections: STRAY KIDS MV FICFEST





	even shadows need light to exist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SKZ MV FICFEST 2020](http://twitter.com/skzmvfest)! This was inspired by [Mixtape#2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvOoSNLpqWo) and also by many, many stories told by SKZ over the last two to three years.
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about their bond as a group. So, here. Have the product of months of endlessly watching Stray Kids videos and the unwavering desire to protect this chaotic group of kids forever and ever.
> 
> **Major warning for graphic depictions of a panic attack towards the end of the work.**

He rubs at his eyes.

They’re starting to sting. He’d run out of eye drops yesterday morning and hadn’t remembered to go buy more before coming over to the training building. One thing had led to another and now he’s here, dry-eyed and weary as he blinks at the screen of his laptop, one hand still settled onto the keys of his MIDI controller.

He’s been working on the same track for hours. At this point, it’s starting to feel more like days, the hands on the clock running together until the passing of time has become indistinguishable from the slow, steady tempo of the beat ringing in his ears as he restarts the track again, and again, and again.

It has to be perfect. It has to be.

Chris rubs at his eyes again, and chances a glance at the time in the bottom right corner of his screen. Just a little past eight-thirty in the evening. It’s still considerably early (for him, at least), but he hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before.

He hasn’t really gotten enough sleep in a long time.

But—he’s told himself this before. Sleep is secondary to the dream. Everything is. He hasn’t sacrificed every single relationship, every single other inconsequential desire, every piece of free time he’s ever had to not make his dream a reality in the end.

Chris navigates his cursor back over to the key editor and prepares to rework the entire thing, still dissatisfied with what he’s churned out after several hours worth of attempts.

Again. He’ll do it as many times as he has to.

Again. No matter how many hours of sleep he loses.

Again. It’s never enough.

Everything else is secondary.

There’s a knock on the door, and Chris slips his headphones off, glancing up. “Come in,” he says, and it opens to reveal Jisung, poking his head around the door. “Hey. Thought you were back at the dorm.”

“Was.” Jisung shuts the door behind him. A plastic bag rustles behind him as he lets his arm fall to his side. “Why aren’t _you_ at the dorm?”

Chris blinks. He’d thought it’d be obvious. “I’m… working? Like I always do?”

A frown sets in on Jisung’s face. “You do know what day it is, right?”

“Thursday,” Chris says. He’s not really sure where this line of questioning is going. He’s tired. He needs to finish this up. He’s not done. “Look, I really have to get this finished up—”

“Happy birthday!” Jisung blurts, holding the plastic bag out with both hands like it’s an offering. His mouth twists unhappily. “I brought you food. Because I know you wouldn’t have eaten anything. It’s your birthday. Don’t tell me you forgot. Again.”

(Everything else is secondary.)

“You know it’s not important,” Chris says quietly. He reaches out and takes the bag from Jisung’s, and sets it in his lap. It’s a packet of noodles from his favourite hole-in-the-wall. The same one he’s gone to a million times over the last seven years, the one near the dorm. “It’s just another day.”

“You always say this,” Jisung says. “It’s important to me. To us.” He rubs at his face, letting out a breath. “Look. Please. Just come back to the dorm for a bit. Take a break. You can finish the track tomorrow.”

“I really can’t,” Chris says.

“You can finish the track tomorrow,” Jisung repeats, firmer. “Please.”

“Jisung,” Chris says, shaking his head. “It’s just a birthday.”

“It’s not just the birthday, okay?” Jisung bites his lip. “You work… just so—goddamn hard, all the damn time. Just… listen to me for once, hyung. Please. Just come home and have dinner with me. Just tonight.”

Chris wants to push again that no, he can’t, this is more than just him, this is for them too, all of them, all of these kids that he’s somehow drawn into his fold over the last year and a half, these kids who are looking to him for a chance on the stage, and he can’t let them down for a day that ultimately doesn’t mean a thing to him.

But—here’s one of those kids. Looking at him with those wide eyes, asking him for just this one thing. One thing.

It’s only been a little while since he’s gotten to know some of the kids, but Chris knows he’d probably do anything for any of them, if they just asked.

“Just tonight,” Chris repeats, and Jisung’s expression brightens instantly. “But I’m bringing my laptop back with me. Go sleep in Jeongin’s room.”

Jisung shoots him a thumbs up. “I’ll wait for you to pack up.”

As they’re heading back to the trainee dorm, Jisung skipping alongside him and looking decidedly more cheery than before, Chris asks, “Y’know, I figured you would’ve already had dinner by now. What did the other two have?”

“Oh, just ramen.” Jisung shrugs, not looking at him. “I wanted to wait for you.”

“Okay,” Chris says. It’s a little odd. Jisung usually doesn’t wait on him.

“Hey,” Jisung suddenly says, glancing up. “Why _don’t_ you like celebrating your birthday anyway? Like, for real.”

It’s just another day, he wants to say, but he knows that’s not the entire truth. The place where he’s supposed to hold birthdays dear like normal people, it’s been carved out and made hollow by years of birthdays spent on his own, or spent with people that he’ll likely never get to see again, or with people who don’t have time for him anymore.

It’s because he hasn’t gotten to celebrate it with the right people in a long, long time.

“No reason,” Chris murmurs. “I just don’t need to.”

The noodles are cold by the time they get back to the dorm. It’s fine, they have a microwave for a reason. Chris shucks his shoes off, stashes his beanie in his jacket as he pads over to the kitchen that’s been left in darkness, and makes to turn the light on.

Click.

 _“SURPRISE!”_ the kids scream, and Chris nearly knocks a chair over when he startles, spinning around to find the lot of them standing there. His gaze darts over them, counting… they’re all here. All of them, even the ones who should be home for the night. Seungmin’s holding a cake, and all of them are wearing party hats, and Jisung’s looking like the cat who's definitely gotten the cream. “Happy birthday Chris-hyung!” they all chorus, completely out of sync, and Chris’ mouth falls open.

“Happy birthday!” Felix echoes, beaming. “We got you cake! Chocolate cake! It’s your favourite!”

“And we got you a present too,” Hyunjin says, bouncing on his heels, “I know you’d probably rather get a visit from Kkami, but my parents wouldn’t let me bring him.”

“We picked it out together,” Jeongin says, holding up a badly wrapped box. The paper is torn on one corner and the ribbon is an odd shade of lime-green that looks completely out of place on the dark purple wrapper. It’s perfect. “Hope you like it!”

Something warm and overflowing rises in Chris’ chest, threatening to cut off his words if he doesn’t say something quick. “I...” he starts, curling his fingers into his sleeve in an attempt to ground himself, “I didn’t think... I thought you all were supposed to be home.”

“We are,” Changbin says, grinning. “And, what, you think we were gonna let you work the entire day? We’re not _that_ awful.”

“I just… didn’t think—”

“Again with the not thinking.” Jisung steps over to jam a bright pink party hat over Chris’ head, and Chris lets him, eyes curving in a smile involuntarily. “We thought on your behalf, then.”

Chris exhales, and looks back up at them again. “You guys didn’t have to.”

“We didn’t,” Minho agrees, standing right at the back of their ragtag group. “But we wanted to.”

(He just hasn’t gotten to celebrate it with the right people.)

“Thanks,” Chris says softly. He looks at the cake, and the present, and the cold noodles on the table, and each of their faces. Each and every single one of them. “Thank you guys. All of you.”

It’ll be them. He’s resolved. It has to be them, now.

Maybe not everything has to be secondary, after all.

“So…” Chris says. “Cake time?”

“Cake time!” they cheer, and the cake almost falls onto the floor before it even reaches the table. Someone shoves a bunch of candles in—and they’re not even the right number, but Chris doesn’t even care—and Changbin lights them up, and they all sing Chris the most horrendous, tone-deaf version of the birthday song he’s ever heard.

It’s the best birthday he’s had in a long time.

“Make a wish,” Felix says, nudging Chris in the arm. Half the group have their phones out to record, and Chris gives them a wink and a grin before leaning forward to blow all the candles right out.

“What’d you wish for?”

“Not telling!”

“I wanna know!”

“It was just something about the group,” Chris admits, and they all ‘aww’ in unison, before barraging Chris with teasing over how sentimental he is. He protests, but just weakly, knowing they’ll move onto making him unwrap his present soon enough anyway.

But it’s true. He is.

 _These are the kids I want to debut with,_ Chris had wished, hoped, prayed to all the gods above as he blew the candles out. Just this one thing. _They’re the ones I want to do this with._

And they’ll do this together.

They whisper behind his back, in the hallway, in group-chats and practice rooms.

He steps out into the cover of the late-night, early-morning darkness that folds over him, a familiar chill that he’s far too used to by now. Hyunjin tugs his windbreaker tighter around himself and continues walking to the bus stop.

It’s just past five in the morning. Soon, the bus will arrive, and then the train will come, and then he’ll take another bus, and then he’ll be back at school. Another day in a week full of days just like this one.

Another day after a week full of nights like the one he’s just had.

It’s nothing new. He knows that people talk. He’s known that ever since he’d joined the company with nothing to his name except a desire to learn.

It still hurts. He’s not going to lie. He still hears the words they say.

He’s just a pretty face.

He didn’t get in on merit.

He’s going to debut as the visual.

 _Hwang Hyunjin,_ they say, _there are people better than you. It’s unfair._

It’s not.

(It’s unfair.)

“It’s not,” Hyunjin murmurs, pushing his way into the dance department classroom.

He’s the earliest again. There are bags on desks and jackets thrown across the backs of chairs. He sets his own bag on the floor and glances at his phone for the time. Maybe he should go to the practice room for a bit. He has the time. Class won’t start for another forty minutes.

So he does.

He does a light warm-up and sinks into a simple routine, running through some choreo for their monthly assessment. He knows the choreo inside-out, but it doesn’t stop him from practicing it for the umpteenth time, until he’s starting to sweat, until his breath is coming harder, until the bell rings and it’s time to go to class.

Hyunjin fiddles with his pen and only half-listens to his teacher as she drones on about something math related. He can already feel his attention slipping, and it’s only been a little while since class has started. It’s not that he doesn’t like school (okay, alright, he doesn’t like school) but it’s been getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

He dozes between lessons, catching sleep where he can, but it’s never enough.

It’s practice, then school, then practice, then lessons, then practice, then school, and then practice, and then more practice—the cycle goes on. There isn’t enough time to do anything else.

Hyunjin pushes through it, even though the ache doesn’t ever subside, even though it’s getting harder and harder to stay awake in the moments between, because he has to prove everyone wrong.

He has to prove that he was worth the chance.

So—school for now, practice later.

The moment class lets out for the day, he’s texting the group KKT chat to ask if anyone else will be at the building today. He knows Chris will be, that’s a given, but Chris’ll probably be working on music. Jisung too.

His phone pings as he walks down the subway stairs. Seungmin’s at extra-curriculars and Jeongin’s got tuition. Minho’s got a lesson from his vocal teacher, and Hyunjin winces, knowing that she’s been a bit hard on him these days. He doesn’t envy him.

 _‘i’ll be around,’_ Changbin replies a moment after Hyunjin’s texted his sympathies. _‘i’ll come find u after we’re done in the studio’_

 _‘kk,’_ Hyunjin responds. _‘u kno where’_

_‘yea’_

His favourite place to practice is in one of the smaller practice rooms in the building, the one he always books for when he’s back after school. He’s spent countless nights and countless hours in here, making sure that he keeps up with the rest even after group practices are done. Making sure that he does his best.

Hyunjin slips in, drops his bag by the computer, and gets to work.

Time always flashes by whenever he’s dancing. He doesn’t know how he’d spent his life before this not doing what he does now. Every beat, each rhythm—he pours his heart and soul into it, until it’s all he knows, until it’s all he sees and hears and tastes. The squeak of his sneakers against the polished floors. His own tired, determined eyes in the mirror. Sweat dripping down his temples, along the curve of his lip.

And finally— _finally,_ he allows himself a break.

He’s guzzling back a stale bottle of water when the door opens. “Yo,” Changbin says, slipping in with a nod. “You done?”

“Sorta.” Hyunjin motions towards the bench. “Wait for me, I gotta warm down.”

Changbin drops himself onto the bench and tugs his phone out.

As Hyunjin starts to stretch, voices float in from down the corridor. “Maybe we should’ve gone a floor up.”

“No, we’ll find one here,” comes a voice Hyunjin can’t place.

From the bench, Changbin snorts. “Those two,” he says, not looking up from his phone, “don’t know why they keep trying their luck and not booking a room the day before.”

“That one empty?” They’ve stopped right outside. “This one, Room 8.”

Hyunjin pauses, halfway into a lunge. He did remember to sign in at the desk, didn’t he? But—he’s just about done anyway, so it’s fine. He’s about to call out to whoever’s asking, but their next words stop him on the spot.

“No, Hwang Hyunjin’s probably in there,” a second voice says. “He’s always in this one.”

“He practices?” There’s a laugh. “That’s a thought.”

“I mean, if he’s always there—” There’s a pause, like the speaker’s shrugging. “He must be doing something, right?”

“Sucking up to those three, probably. How else did he get into the project group?” The voices begin to fade along with their footsteps. “This one?”

Hyunjin exhales.

And then—he’s dashing forward to grab Changbin by the arm before he can reach the door, Changbin who’s already two steps out of his seat, everything else forgotten. “Don’t,” Hyunjin says, low and urgent and pleading, “seriously, just don’t.”

“They can’t just fucking say that shit,” Changbin seethes. “They don’t know a _fucking thing—”_

“I’m used to it,” Hyunjin says, trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal. “It’s fine. They’re not worth it.”

(He’s not fine. The words have landed harder than they usually would’ve, what with Hyunjin running on a lack of sleep and a lack of patience and an overabundance of hurt and exhaustion and insecurity.

It hurts like hell.

He’s not fine in the slightest.)

Changbin looks at him, tight-lipped and unhappy. “It’s fine,” he repeats, toneless. “You’re used to it. Okay. What the fuck ever.” He tugs his arm out of Hyunjin’s grasp, and exhales through his teeth as he stomps back to his bag.

Hyunjin feels his heart sink. _Shit,_ he thinks, _is Changbin mad? At me?_

He stands there, feeling unsure, until Changbin turns back around, bag slung over his shoulder. Then, Changbin says, “Stay over tonight.”

Hyunjin blinks. “What?”

“Stay over,” Changbin repeats. “You haven’t come over to my place in ages. My parents have been asking after you anyway. And—some of your stuff’s still there, you don’t have to go home and get anything.”

“I—” Hyunjin swallows back his questions, and says, “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He isn’t sure what Changbin’s getting at, at first, but it takes a walk to the subway, the trek up to Changbin’s apartment, an incredibly delicious dinner with his parents and the soft comfort of one of Changbin’s old shirts and a warm blanket that he realises.

He hasn’t thought about what they said the entire night.

Changbin’s busy putting on some random YouTube video when Hyunjin clears his throat and says, “Thanks.”

There’s a grunt in acknowledgment. “I didn’t do anything,” Changbin mutters, and that says more than Changbin wants it to say.

 _I should’ve done something,_ Hyunjin hears. _I should’ve said something._

But he has.

That night, when Hyunjin’s falling asleep on the spare mattress, he thinks that maybe he dreams Changbin’s voice, quiet but firm in the space between them.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” The light on the bedside table goes out. “We know you. It’s enough.”

And for Hyunjin, maybe that could be enough, too.

It’s the end.

“Minho,” Park Jinyoung says softly, and it’s the end for him, it’s the end. Minho can’t look anywhere other than straight ahead of him. He can’t look to his left, where Jeongin is standing in line with him. He can’t look to his right, where Chris is, right at the end. Chris—or Chan now, he supposes, who’d trusted him with this, Chan who’d taken him by the arm and asked him to dance with them just four months ago, and oh, does Minho want to apologise right then and there.

They’d all trusted him.

“I could see that you did your best to prepare. But—you’ve trained less than the other members.”

“Yes,” Minho says. It’s the only thing he can say.

“So, Minho—it’s not that you were lacking. I just think your training period was too short.”

It wasn’t enough. You didn’t do enough. You weren’t _enough._

“Don’t be too disappointed.”

“Yes.”

He barely hears the next words that come, something about comforting him. When Park PD approaches, he bows hurriedly, and takes the hand he offers in a shake. “Work hard to prepare again,” he’s told, and it’s with those final words that the man walks away, leaving him in the same precarious, uncertain spot.

Well. It’s no longer uncertain, that’s for sure. He’s most definitely eliminated.

Eliminated. Lee Minho, eliminated from Stray Kids.

 _Stray Kids,_ he thinks, looking anywhere but the other members. _That could’ve been us. All of us. I messed up. I messed up. I’m so sorry._

Then, Jisung reaches him, mouth curved in a frown, eyes disbelieving, and all Minho can do is smile like the fool he is.

He can’t believe it either.

They hug him, all of them. Felix who’s already sobbing, Seungmin who’s pretending he isn’t, little Jeongin who rests his cheek on Minho’s shoulder and holds him close. He doesn’t have to say anything. Minho knows he regrets everything about this.

“Oh man,” Chan says, stepping over with red-rimmed eyes, returning the smile that Minho gives him. “Why’d you have to mess up the lyrics?”

“You should’ve done it like in practice,” Hyunjin’s voice comes.

Chan stands there, wordless and understanding, and when he opens his arms for Minho to step right into them, there’s nothing else he can say but, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry,” Chan murmurs, patting his shoulder, “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

And Minho just can’t help but smile regretfully again, just smile as the tears begin to roll down his face, heavy and wet with grief.

They don’t let go of each other for a long time.

When the staff ask them to come for individual interviews, finally switching the main cameras off, everyone’s still quiet and teary. Even Minho, who rarely cries. Minho, who rarely lets anyone see his tears for anything at all.

But, this. It’s a different kind of heartbreak, this is.

And when all is said and done, and they’ve headed back to the dorm, Minho stands in the middle of the hallway and wonders what’s next for him.

He’s not part of the group. Does that mean he even belongs in this dorm anymore?

Does he belong in that room with the other two when he’s not in the group anymore?

Should he just start packing up now?

Is this it?

“This is it,” Minho says quietly, and everyone turns to look at him. “I’s so sorry, guys.”

“Stop apologising,” Hyunjin says, coming over to rest a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “Please, hyung.”

“We could’ve all done more for you,” Changbin says, voice muted. “I could’ve practiced with you—”

“We could’ve all practiced with him,” Chan says. “We could’ve slept less too. We could’ve focused on less on our own parts and maybe things could’ve turned out better. There are a lot of things we could’ve done, but we can’t change any of it by talking about it now. All of those things are in the past.”

They’re moving on. Maybe he should move on, too.

“I’ll get my things,” he says, and everyone immediately moves to stop him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jisung says, eyes wide. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You’re not just walking out of here. We won’t let you.”

“I’m not in the group anymore,” Minho says, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t belong here.”

“Minho,” Chan says. “It doesn’t mean a thing to us. You’re still part of us.” He meets Chan’s eyes, and Chan looks determined, like he’s just about ready to march right out of here and fight for Minho. “We need you here. Right here. So that you’ll be right there with us when we make it. All of us.”

“There’s no way,” Minho says, “you heard what he said—”

“We’ll show them otherwise,” Changbin says fiercely. “You’re going to keep practicing and get better and you’re going to come back to us. We’re not going anywhere without you.”

Minho stares at them, taken aback.

He’s only been with them for a few months. Less than, even. Some of them have known each other for months, even years. Minho knows he’s even taken the spot of someone they’ve all been friends with for a long time. How could they want him so much?

How could they fight for him this hard, when he doesn’t even know if he can fight for himself?

“Please,” Felix says, looking teary-eyed again. “Don’t give up.”

“You’re going to be a singer,” Jisung says. “You’re not gonna be anything else. You hear me? Nothing else. Not even if you wanna start working at that noodle place Chan-hyung likes so much that he’d probably sell us all to the ahjumma for a bowl.”

Minho bursts out into laughter, and there are a few smiles across the group.

“You’ll be a singer,” Chan says. “We’ll make sure of it if you just keep going. We promise.”

If he just keeps on going.

 _I want to be a singer,_ the Minho in his memory says, young and eager.

And he will.

“Yeah. Alright,” he says, reveling in the whoop that Jisung gives him, and the satisfied grin that Chan shoots him, one hand still on his shoulder. “I will.”

He feels like a stranger in his own skin.

It’s not that he stands out for looking the way he does. That was true back home, back when he’d been the token Asian kid in so many of his classes, his friend groups, back when he’d been surrounded by people who looked nothing like him.

But, here—when Felix opens his mouth, people know he’s not one of them.

They know.

They stare at him with those looks on his faces. Amused, like they’re wondering where he went to school, like they’re wondering why his parents haven’t taught him to speak properly, like he’s a child. Judgmental, like he’s a foreigner who doesn’t belong, even though he looks just like them.

(He doesn’t. He knows. He’ll never really be one of them.)

He makes a fool of himself more times than he can count. When he’s fresh off the plane and brand new to the company, the other trainees laugh at him, the trainers lose their patience with him, and he avoids going out because he gets lost more often than not, afraid to ask for directions and end up getting scoffed at.

Felix gets all the textbooks and workbooks possible and shuts himself away in the tiniest of rooms, running over spelling and vocabulary as much as he can in between learning to rap and learning to sing and dancing, dancing, dancing until his lungs are on fire and his heartbeat rings in his ears, until his feet hurt and his arms can no longer lift above his head, until the others stop laughing at him and start looking at him like he’s a threat.

And then Chris happens, and the Boys Project Group happens, and the survival show happens and Stray Kids happens, and—

—wait a minute.

He makes it.

_He really makes it._

They all do. All of them, even Minho who’d gotten eliminated before he did. It’s mind-blowing, disbelieving, completely insane to imagine that he did it, that they all did this.

But it doesn’t stop him from still feeling like that very same stranger who’d came to Korea all those months ago.

He doesn’t know enough words to properly express himself half the time. His brain still starts sentences in English and by the time he’s done untangling his sticky, translated Korean, the conversation’s moved on. He misses entire phrases, and ends up just smiling and nodding along, feeling like an idiot while everyone else understands.

Some days, he feels like screaming. _I’m trying,_ he wants to say, _there’s so much I want to say, please, listen to me, please._

(He’ll never really be one of them.)

Please.

He has so much to say.

Felix just doesn’t know how to say it.

“You’re missing a letter. Right there, in ‘holiday’.”

He glances up from where he’s bent over his workbook at their little dining table, cast in a half-lit yellow from the kitchen lights overhead. Minho looks back at him, expression unreadable, and Felix turns back to the exercise, quickly scanning the page. He’s sure he hadn’t gotten anything wrong, he’s sure he double-checked…

And—“Oh,” Felix says, feeling embarrassed when he spots the spelling mistake, and he quickly pens in the little circle under the second syllable stack. “Thanks.”

Minho takes a seat opposite him. “Which book are you on?”

Felix lifts it for Minho to see the cover. “I’m on 3A now,” he says, nibbling at the tip of his pen idly. “Just started. It’s a bit harder than the last one.”

A lot, actually. He just… doesn’t quite want the others to know he’s been falling behind again.

“That’s good. You’re doing good.” Minho looks approving, and Felix’s spirits lift just a bit. “You’re a lot better than when you started off.”

“Thanks, ssaem,” Felix says lightly.

Minho grins. “You don’t need me to be your Korean teacher anymore.”

Felix swallows, and glances away, setting the tip of his pen back to paper. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “sure thing.”

Across the table, Minho shifts in his chair. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You know you’re doing a lot better than when you first got here, right?”

“Yeah, but…” Felix scratches out a word, slow and unsure. “I’m still not good enough.”

“You’re trying your best.”

“But I can’t say the things I want to say,” Felix stresses, “and there’s just—I have so much to say. And I can’t say it. I can’t say any of it because I don’t know the words.” He rubs at his face. “And no one ever hears me.”

Minho doesn’t say anything for a long while. Then, he gets up, rounds the corner of the table and pats Felix’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we don’t hear you sometimes,” Minho says, voice low, the warmth of his hand on Felix’s shoulder grounding him, “and I know it’s difficult. But you’re doing better than you know, okay?”

Felix lets out a breath. “I just—” he says, “I wish I didn’t look so dumb half the time.”

“Dude,” Minho says, “who’s been telling you that? Never mind. Don’t listen to them. You’re doing good. Listen to me. I’m always right.”

Felix giggles. “Of course you are,” he says, rolling his eyes, and Minho grins. “Thanks, hyung.”

Minho gives his shoulder one last squeeze before his hand falls back to his side. “If you ever need someone to practice with, you know where my room is,” he says lightly, and Felix salutes him.

Maybe it’s okay that he can’t quite be like everyone else.

He’ll always have Stray Kids.

(“In Korean, Felix! Say it in Korean.”

“Happy birthday,” he starts, tilting the sign back to see the word, “happy birthday STAY, you… you are… what’s ‘the’, how do you say ‘the’ in Korean?”

“Read it from here,” Changbin says, motioning at his sign, “from here.”

“And, go!”

“The reason… we, exist? Reason is…” Felix trails off, unsure of himself.

“It was right, just keep going.”

“You… are the reason… we exist,” he eventually manages, and there’s an impressed whoop across the room.

“You got it!” someone calls, and beside him, Jeongin claps, saying that he’d gotten it right. Across the room, Chris looks proud, shooting him a little smile.

Felix beams right back.)

They hear him.

It’s stupid.

Seungmin hates that it’d even happened. And—over what, a game?

A stupid game. One he didn’t even end up winning.

It was for nothing.

The doctor lets him lie back down, and Seungmin chews nervously on his lip. “How long before I can dance again?”

“You mean before you can walk,” the doctor corrects, and Seungmin’s heart sinks down so far that his stomach begins to roll uneasily. “You’ll have to watch your movement for three weeks. A couple of months before I’d recommend anything too intensive at all, like dancing.”

Months. They’re going on tour in less than two weeks. He doesn’t _have_ months.

Tears prick at the back of his eyes, but he blinks them back before anyone else can pick up on them. “I understand,” he says politely, “thank you.”

He’s quiet all the way through the car ride back to the dorm, and he’s helped out and up by their manager, who just clicks his tongue once and says, “It happens.”

It happens. Yeah. It’s happened, and now what can he do about it?

Nothing.

Stupid, stupid. So stupid.

The others, predictably, swarm him the moment he comes through the door. “Seungmin!” Hyunjin hovers by his elbow, unsure if he should touch him. “What did the doctor say?”

“Hold on, hold on. Give him some room,” their manager says, and the boys part like the Red Sea for Seungmin to limp over to the couch and sit down gingerly. “I’ll bring the wheelchair by tomorrow. Your medicines are over here.”

“Wheelchair?” someone exclaims from behind Seungmin.

“Wheelchair,” Chan repeats, sounding pensive. “How long?”

Seungmin stares at the coffee table. “Two months,” he says, surly.

“Shit,” Jisung whispers. “But, we’re going on tour—”

He tunes out the rest of the discussion, scrolling unhappily through his phone, picking at the cushions absently, trying very hard to not think about what he’s done by going and getting injured like this.

“So stupid,” he mumbles, and beside him, the sofa sinks with someone’s weight.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Chan ruffles his hair, and pets the nape of his neck kindly, as he says, “It was an accident. And accidents will happen.”

“They shouldn’t. Not when we have so many schedules coming up.”

“I can already see the cogs turning in your brain.” Chan shakes his head. “I don’t want you worrying about schedules, or the tour, or anything. Just get better, alright?”

“Fine,” Seungmin says, still not meeting his eyes.

He knows it won’t be forever. It’s not like he’s fractured something, it’s just a bad, very-no-good, awful back sprain. He’ll heal.

But—two months of sitting around, of not getting to dance, of not being on his feet?

Seungmin spends the next two weeks learning to wheel himself around in the chair that their manager brings over to the dorm, and to move around without pulling anything again. He doesn’t want to rely on anyone too much, pushing through the pain for all the mundane stuff he always does. Getting a glass of water. Going to the bathroom. Going to the company building to practice.

It’s fine. He deals.

It’s only when discussions and dance practices and rehearsals pick back up that he begins to falter.

He sits on the sidelines as he watches their instructors rework bits and pieces of their group choreography to make up for him not being there. Not being part of the group. He’ll still be onstage, he knows, they’ll sit him on a chair and give him a microphone.

But it’s not the same.

He hates that it’s happening again, like back during their trainee days when he’d gotten sick right before that big performance they had against the other trainees and couldn’t sing. He hates it, he hates it.

History repeats itself.

Seungmin misses out, again.

This time—it feels a little more like he’s getting left behind than just missing out.

“It’s not a big deal,” he tries to tell himself on the very first night of concerts after he’d gotten injured. “It’s fine.” He’ll still be there, singing. He’ll still get to see the fans right in front of him. He’s not getting left behind, he tells himself, he’s not.

 _They could do this without you,_ his traitorous brain tells him. _They don’t need you._

Seungmin grips his microphone hard, and lets them help him up the stairs to the stage.

It’s definitely strange and more than a little awkward to just sit there all on his own while the others are mid-stage dancing. Seungmin pretends it doesn’t hurt, having to watch them from afar, not getting to be right up there, right with them. His own team.

(They don’t need you.)

But—halfway through the second song, Jeongin breaks ranks momentarily, and jogs over to Seungmin to wave at the fans closer to him. “Hey,” he calls over the music, leaning in close over Seungmin’s shoulder, “we’re not forgetting about you!”

Seungmin just blinks up at him, but Jeongin’s already moving back towards the group.

It doesn’t end there. Throughout the night, the rest of the members dash over, dance around his chair, come around to his side just to tease him as he’s singing.

And it feels good. It feels good to be remembered.

They even carry him over in his chair to the middle during ments, Chan and Changbin very carefully picking him up and scuttling across the stage. “Don’t drop him!” Felix yells at some point, and everyone bursts into laughter.

Seungmin can’t imagine doing this without them.

Towards the end of the concert, Jeongin comes back over alone again just to breathlessly say, “See, I told you. We’ll never forget.”

Seungmin doesn’t say anything, but he does tug Jeongin down to dig his knuckles against his temple, and Jeongin splutters out a laugh as he falls into a crouch beside him and shoots the fans a v-sign, grinning widely.

Seungmin glances back out at the crowd, the multitude of fans who don’t see them as an incomplete group and Seungmin, the fans who only see Stray Kids, right there, on that stage—

And he smiles.

No, they haven’t left him behind. Not for a second.

Blood rushes through his ears.

It’s too much. Make it stop. He doesn’t want it anymore.

His heartbeat is going too fast, too fast—he can’t breathe, he doesn’t—he can’t _breathe_ , why won’t they just leave him alone, please, stop, make it stop—

Dizzy, nauseous, stop, _stop,_ it’s too much, _he can’t do this._

Someone’s calling his name. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his pulse, it’s in his ears, it’s in his throat, it’s choking him, he can’t fucking breathe—

He’s going to die. Make it stop.

_Please, make it stop._

His feet stumble from under him. Someone’s leading him away. He can’t see. He can’t do anything but grasp at the sleeve of whoever it is. There are still too many people. He’s going to throw up. The lights are blinding across the skin of his eyelids, searing, painful, dizzying, awful.

Someone calls his name again, and he fumbles for them.

Make it stop, he says, but no one hears him, I can’t— _I can’t,_ I—please, I don’t know—how do I make it st— _op,_ please—

He comes to a halt. Suddenly it’s quieter wherever he is, but the buzzing’s still in his ears, his heartbeat shot and spiking all over the place. “Jisung,” he finally hears, and whose voice is that? Whose voice—

“Breathe,” the voice says, and he can’t, he can’t breathe, he can’t he can’t he can’t—”You can. Slowly. Breathe, please.”

Okay. Okay, if the voice says he can, he can. He can, right? He knows how to breathe, that’s easy, he’s been doing that since he was a baby. He knows how to breathe. He can do that.

He breathes, and instantly chokes on his own snot and tears. “Fuck,” he says, and there’s a quiet laugh from beside them, “okay, okay. Okay. Okay.” He tries again, and this time it goes a little more successfully.

And again, and again, until the lights have left his eyes, and his pulse has stopped swirling in his gut, and he feels a little more like a human again.

“Okay,” the voice says, and Jisung blinks once, twice, thrice. Seungmin’s face swims into view. Jisung hiccups, and rubs at his face. “Hey. Han-ah.”

Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

It’s then that he realises that he’s on the floor, curled up and small, knees drawn up to his chin. Seungmin’s crouched down right in front of him, holding his hand. He’s not too near Jisung, though. That makes it okay.

“Hey,” Jisung says hoarsely, “m’sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise.” Seungmin glances to his right. There must be someone else there, their manager or maybe Chan or someone, but Jisung doesn’t want to look. “It happened again.”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t a good one this time.”

“I know,” Jisung whispers.

Seungmin waits patiently. He doesn’t ask for more information. What brought it on this time, why now, why here. He doesn’t reprimand him for it either. You should have it under control. He doesn’t say anything, but he holds Jisung’s hand, and waits.

They just keep on waiting.

All of them.

“I think,” Jisung finally says, words sticking to the roof of his mouth, tiny and afraid and unsure, “I think I need real help.”

Seungmin’s hand tightens around Jisung’s. “Then, come on,” he says, calm and easy, “let’s get you some.”

The fear doesn’t recede, but Jisung feels just a little bolder as he takes one step forward, and then another.

Another, and Seungmin still doesn’t let go.

(And later, much later, he’ll find that the others won’t ever let go of him, either.)

 _It’s okay to go slow,_ he thinks. _It’s alright._

It’ll be alright.

He steps back into the light of day, one breath at a time.

He’s never been away from home for this long before.

Even though he’s been staying in the dorms since the very beginning, he’d always be able to visit home over the weekends, or at least once a month. Even when they’d debuted and he’d found himself busier than he ever imagined he’d be, he’d managed a visit every few months or so.

They’ve been stuck in Seoul for so long.

It’s bad enough that they have to worry about getting sick. It’s worse when it’s his family that could get sick too, while he’s hundreds of miles away and separated from them.

Jeongin wants to go home.

Another day passes, and another, and another.

One more, and Jeongin starts to lose track of the number of days it’s been since he last went back to Busan. One more, and the weeks and months start to blur together as the news gets progressively worse.

He hopes they’re all alright back home. Phone calls and video calls and a spam of text messages in the family group chat just aren’t the same as seeing them, being near them, breathing the same air as them.

Jeongin misses the crispness of the sky, the way the blue sea covers the coast and spreads out further than the eye can see. He misses the fresh catch, the smell of salt in the night breeze, the stepping stones along the docks. He misses messing around with his brothers, misses watching baseball with his father, misses helping out in the kitchen with his mother.

He misses them.

He does—but he just feels so, so guilty sometimes for even missing them this much.

How could he, when Felix and Chan haven’t even gone home in years?

He doesn’t deserve to miss them, not when they’re still in the same country as him.

Jeongin fiddles with his phone, scrolling through his texts from his little brother again. His last message had been something about school. Just a few more months and Jeongin won’t be able to relate anymore. He almost can’t believe that he’s supposed to finish with school soon.

He stares at the message a little longer. Wonders if he should video call again. It’s been a couple of days since he’s seen their faces.

It’s then that someone bounces onto the bed, nearly toppling Jeongin right off with the force of it. “Yongbok!” Jeongin squeaks, and Felix snickers, shifting over to steal one of Jeongin’s pillows. He hadn’t even noticed Felix coming into the room. “Why. Just why.”

“You know why.” Felix leans against Jeongin’s shoulder. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Jeongin mumbles, “go bully Changbin, he’s free.”

“You’re just looking at your phone though.” Felix peers at the screen. “Oh, are you talking to your brother? How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay.” Jeongin shrugs noncommittally. “Probably the same as your sister.”

“Unless your brother’s just become obsessed with TikTok, I don’t think so.” Felix grins, but the next moment, his smile turns soft. “I miss her. Both of them, really.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin says, and he glances away. “I know you do.”

Felix nudges him in the side. “Hey,” he says. “You’ll get to go back soon.”

“I know,” Jeongin says, the words coming out a bit more exasperated than he’d wanted. “I know,” he repeats. “It’s just… it’s not fair!”

Felix blinks at him, eyes wide. “What’s not fair?”

“It’s—” Jeongin takes a deep breath. “It’s just not fair,” he starts, “that I’m missing my family so much, and you and Chan-hyung haven’t even seen yours in so long, and I just saw mine three months ago, and that’s like, nothing, but I’m still upset and lonely and everything and it’s not fair to you—”

“It’s not,” Felix cuts in, “I mean, it’s not, not fair. Wait, I…” He falls silent, trying to find the right words. “I think,” he says, slow and steady, “that you shouldn’t feel bad about missing your family. You deserve to miss them. It’s okay to miss them a lot. Like, a whole lot. Really.”

“But, you both…”

“Chan-hyung always says it’s not a competition,” Felix says simply. “We’re all allowed to miss whoever we want. Even if we see them all the time.”

“Chan-hyung says a lot of things,” Jeongin mutters, fidgeting with the hem of Felix’s sweater.

Then, Felix says, “I miss you guys. All the time, even though I see you all every day. That’s just how it works. You can miss people even if you see them all the time.”

Jeongin makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. “I guess.”

Felix leans in and hugs him. “Don’t feel bad. Please,” he says softly. “We’ll get to go home soon. But you getting to go home is important too.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“It’s important too.”

“No,” Felix says, “the entire thing.”

“Getting to go home is important too.”

“I said the whole thing!”

“Me getting to go home is important too!” Jeongin bursts out, and it’s a shock how much the words make him feel better than before.

Felix grins, pleased. “Don’t forget it, okay?”

“Okay.” Jeongin clings back to Felix, and lets Felix happily nuzzle at his shoulder. “Okay, I won’t. Sorry.”

“Besides,” comes Felix’s voice, “if you ever feel lonely, you have us for now. Just until you get to see them again.”

Yeah. Jeongin does have them.

“You’re right,” Jeongin says, smiling even though Felix can’t see it. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Even if it takes days, weeks, months for Jeongin to get to see his family back home again, it’ll be alright. He can make do. He’ll be fine.

He has the group.

They’re his family away from home, after all.

_Idol rappers can’t rap._

_Their songs are so fucking noisy._

_He’s not a real rapper. He can’t rap._

_They make shit music._

_Seo Changbin can’t rap for shit._

_Who the hell is Stray Kids? They’re no—_

Changbin shuts his laptop, not wanting to see the comments anymore.

He knew they’d be harsh. He’s not surprised. He’s the one who signed up to do this anyway—and for the second time, too. He’s almost glad he didn’t get aired the first time around. They’d barely spared him ten seconds during the audition all those years ago.

He’d definitely gotten luckier this time around.

Still—the comments don’t ever change. He’s just an idol group member. He’s in a boy band, he can’t rap. He’s too busy making cute faces for the cameras and playing it up for fans. He can’t rap. His lyrics are cringy, they’re not talented, they’re just kids trying to be something they’re not.

Seo Changbin can’t rap for shit, they all hiss. Over and over again.

He scoots his chair back and gets up, stalking over to the sink to grab a mug. Changbin chugs down a full glass of water before filling it back up again, and the entire time, he just tells himself that he shouldn’t be pissed.

He’s already been eliminated anyway. It’s not like it matters anymore.

It shouldn’t matter.

“Told you to stop.”

Changbin makes a nonchalant sound. “Stop what?”

Hyunjin saunters into view and plucks a cup from the rack. “Looking at comments,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re just doing this to yourself on purpose.”

“I’m not,” Changbin says. His fingertips tap along the kitchen counter. “They’re just. There.”

“Come on.” Hyunjin nudges him. “Do I need to play that video of Jisung talking about how his entire trainee life changed after you joined the company? Or the one of Chan-hyung talking about how good your lyrics are? Or should I just get Minho-hyung—”

“Stop, _stop,_ god, you’re terrible.”

Hyunjin snickers. “Seriously. Take your own advice.”

He wishes he could.

He wishes he could stop spending hours staring down comments from faceless users on the internet, taking things too much to heart. He’s been doing this for too long. Ever since 3RACHA released their first mixtape, ever since their survival show, ever since debuting.

But he knows they’re all wrong.

He can rap. Of course he fucking can. No one can tell him otherwise.

Those comments don’t piss him off, not anymore.

No, it’s all the ones that mention Stray Kids. People can come for him all they want. He knows how to deal with it. He’s fine.

No one gets to come after the group. Not anyone.

They don’t know how hard the group works. How much goes into their music, how much goes into their dancing. They’ve never seen the way the kids cry, the way they practice into the late hours of the night, the way they’ve kept going on even with a million and one challenges flung their way.

Changbin knows.

“Anyway,” Hyunjin says, “if you’re done, come play Among Us?”

“Weren’t you just playing like, half an hour ago?”

“Yeah, but we roped Chan-hyung into playing now, so you have to.”

Changbin snorts. “Yeah, sure. Let me put my laptop back first. Gotta charge it.”

Hyunjin leaves him be, and Changbin picks his laptop back up, padding into his shared room. Felix is curled up in his bed with his earphones in, probably listening to music, and doesn’t notice Changbin coming in.

Changbin steps quietly over to the desk, lays his laptop down—and before he can stop himself, opens it back up just one last time.

One last time, he thinks, and he skims the comments again.

_Who the hell is Stray Kids? They’re no one. They’re nobody._

It’s easy to say they’re nobody. But Changbin knows they’re just getting started.

He shuts his laptop and goes to find the others, who make him forget all about the comments and the damn show and everything around it.

They’re all he needs anyway.

Jisung and Hyunjin, who laugh and joke and fool around, who murder him multiple times in games until Changbin’s hollering the entire roof down. Jeongin, who will complain to no end, yet continue to endure the bulk of his teasing. Felix, who gives him affection in hugs and pats and smiles that Changbin will never tire of. Seungmin and Minho, who in their own quiet little ways continue to be his pillars of support without him realising it until much, much later.

And Chan, who just smiles a sharp, knowing smile when Changbin says that he finally wants to drop the cypher he’s been working on.

It’s all he needs.

(Three weeks later, his last appearance finally airs.

Changbin’s already expected the responses he gets from his friends and his family, deciding to only reply to their messages in the morning, but he doesn’t expect the Instagram post that goes up right after the episode ends.

 _#BestRapperEver,_ Hyunjin’s post is tagged, along with _#StraykidsWin._

No. Stray Kids aren’t the ones who’ve won here.

It’s definitely Changbin.)

No one cries this time.

Their name is called, the sparklers go off, and the confetti rains down over them.

Chris falls to his knees, laughing. He can’t believe it. They’re all laughing. They’ve won again, and isn’t this just absolutely ridiculous, winning without an audience, the eight of them running and jumping about and hollering as if they’ve never won a single award in their life before?

 _Thank you, Stays,_ Chris thinks as he gets up only to stumble right into Felix’s arms, clutching tightly at him as Felix’s voice rings out brightly in his ears. _Thank you so much._

Celebrating like there’s no tomorrow, they almost forget that they’re supposed to take the trophy, and as a single group, arms all slung around each other’s shoulders, they accept their award and turn back towards the camera for their winner’s speech.

Chris knows there are a million and one people to thank, their staff and their stylists and all the people who’ve given them a hand in making this a reality.

They tell him to keep it short, so he does.

But, even as the music starts right back up and the show credits begin to roll across the monitors, he knows who he really, truly, especially wants to thank.

“And STAY, thank you so much!”

(“Stray Kids everywhere all around the world,” Chris says, a tremble in his voice as he clutches the award in his hand, holding on so, so tight, like he’s afraid that it’ll disappear the moment he lets go.

Beside him, Seungmin and Changbin are in tears, and Hyunjin’s gently ruffling a still-sobbing Jisung’s hair, and the rest of them are just stock-still in disbelief, and Chris can’t believe it. Chris can’t believe they’ve finally won. “You make Stray Kids stay. Thank you!”)

Thank you for bringing us here.

(“Why can’t I refresh it?” Seungmin tugs the laptop closer. “Wait.”

“Did it really?”

“See, it went up by a thousand.”

“Did that fan lie?”

“Wait—oh, oh— _OH! 100 MILLION VIEWS!”_

Everyone starts to scream, and the entire table explodes into chaos.)

Thank you for being with us.

(“Don’t go anywhere,” Hyunjin sobs, shoulders shaking as he presses the heel of his palm against his face, “please, don’t go anywhere.”

“STAY isn’t going anywhere! Where would they go?”)

Thank you for not leaving us behind.

A dozen firsts, a hundred new beginnings, a thousand milestones.

And one team.

They don’t stop celebrating even after the encore stage, even after they’ve gone backstage. SKZ-Talker receives their thanks for the fans, and then it’s time for photos, and throughout it all, their exuberance never fades.

They carry on.

 _These are the kids I debuted with,_ Chris thinks, watching them from where he’s leaning against the wall, quiet and focused on their wonderful, intense, amazing joy. It’s an echo of the past, one that’s kept him going for months and months. One that’ll keep him going for years to come. _They’re the ones I did this with._

“Channie-hyung!”

Felix bounces up to him, a wide, bright smile on his face as Seungmin and Jisung both reach over to grab Chris by the arms, tugging him into the group. Hyunjin’s laughing at something Minho’s just said, and Jeongin’s still staring down at their shiny new trophy. Disbelieving, like all the other times they’d been allowed to cradle the proof of their success in their hands, tangible and irrevocably theirs.

Beside him, Changbin nudges Chris in the arm, and shoots him a grin. “So. Did that wish ever come true?” he asks lightly, the memory of a memory shared between them in a dorm room from a lifetime ago.

“Yeah,” Chris says, smiling right back. “Yeah, it did.”

_And we did this, together._

**Author's Note:**

> \- [jisung talking about how he brought food to chan at the studio because he'd worked through his birthday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL47tVkagHg) (but in reality both of them bawled like babies) (they are baby).  
> \- both hyunjin talking about his school/practice schedule and minho's elimination are found in the survival show.  
> \- [ skz encouraging felix to translate their birthday message to stay from english to korean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBXwy9ZmYhM).  
> \- seungmin suffered a slight back injury during the filming of 'finding skz'.  
> \- jisung struggles with anxiety and did take a break from some activities last year where he hopefully did get lots of support and good professional help. if anyone else struggles with this, you're most definitely not alone.  
> \- jeongin was born and raised in busan! here he is back home with his family in [his first vlog](https://youtu.be/cq5CHXCvmGM) and [his second vlog](https://youtu.be/4CjOyRfuuaA).  
> \- changbin's smtm9 [audition](https://youtu.be/qeiw1F6MfF0) and subsequent [elimination](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71Qp_K2YOqI) (and hyunjin's super sweet [instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/CG-MbOzl-fv/) for him)  
> \- the ments at the district unlock concert were a real rollercoaster of emotions let's just say that  
> \- [skz's 1st win for miroh!](https://youtu.be/R9UK5FC0jCo)  
> \- [skz reacts to 100 million views on god's menu](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izjpGnc0lww)  
> \- [skz's 2nd win for back door!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51VQyIhVFfk)
> 
> ☆☆☆
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/SSEOMT) | [cc](http://curiouscat.me/SSEOMT)


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